The Post Kentucky Blues
by Kansas42
Summary: Sam thinks this is about Kentucky. Sam thinks that's where this all started. But Dean knows better.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the show, have anything to do with the show. . .blah blah blah. You know the rest.

Author's Notes: Spoilers for S2. Takes place sometime after "Bloodlust". AU as of "Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things".

I.

Sam thinks it's about Kentucky. Sam thinks that's where things went wrong.

Dean knows better. But then, he always did.

II.

The call had come in the middle of the night, jarring him out of dreams he couldn't quite remember. There had been a woman—a dark brunette—with a soft smile and cold hands. The details were hazy and already slipping, the way dreams drowned, slow and then suddenly gone, but it left Dean feeling vaguely, strangely uneasy, as if this dream was more than met the eye.

But dreams didn't mean anything—unless you were Sammy, where dreams inevitably meant bruises and beasts and all kinds of bloodshed—so Dean pushed the uneasiness back like he pushed everything back, and reached for the phone, thinking maybe it was finally Dad.

The guy on the phone was saying stuff, but Dean completely missed it all because he was too busy remembering that it'd be a little hard for Dad to be calling. Dad kinda couldn't call 'cause Dad was kinda dead _(Dad's dead, Dad's dead, Dad's deaddeaddead)_ but man, old habits were hard to break. A year on the road traveling, waiting for any kind of sign, looking for any kind of clue as to where their dad could be. A year on the road with Sam just waiting for Dad to call, waiting for Dad to come back and make everything right again.

Dad called. Dad came back. Dad got possessed. Dad died.

And everything was as fucking far from all right as it could possibly hope to get.

Dean thought.

The guy on the phone must have asked a question because there was suddenly a silence that was full of expectation—Dean knew those kind of silences, they came often after questions from Sam. _(Why don't we have a _Mommy? Sam at 4. _When's Dad going to be home?_ Sam at 7. _Why can't we be normal? _Sam at 15. _What are we going to do now?_ Sam at 23.) Dean never had great answers for such silences; he sure as hell didn't now.

So, instead, Dean said, "Sorry?"

And the guy sighed and ran through his spiel again, this time with Dean listening, or at least partially. Old friend of Dad's _(bet you don't know he's dead)_, loved him like a brother _(bet you didn't know his wife) _knew him from the war _(bet you didn't really know him. . .bet you didn't really know what he could do)_. Dean knew he was being unfair, but lately the whole being fair thing had little interest for him. Still, he was grateful this guy wasn't another fucking hunter. It seemed like he couldn't step go two blocks anymore without running into another hunter.

He knew this should be comforting—like having allies when things got bad—but for some reason, this whole hunter community deal was just pissing him off more and more. Hunting had always been about family, the family business, the family quest. Anyone not him or Sam or Dad were supposed to be living their apple lives.

Dean found himself glancing at Sam, who was still asleep. He looked relatively peaceful, which was sort of a first. _My brother, he could die. I can't leave them. He could die._

Dean wasn't exactly sure where the thought came from, except that it was pretty much his mantra. He couldn't leave. His Dad could die. Well, his Dad did die. His brother could too. It was his job to keep Sammy safe. Still, the thought had kind of come out of nowhere, as if it was something he had literally said before. He might've tried to track it down . . .but there was still Mr. Grey to deal with.

Dean made himself listen closer again. It was pretty much the standard deal. Dead guy, dead guy, dead guy. Hearts gone missing. Brains too.

Sounded like their kind of gig. Dean told Mr. Grey so and hung up the phone. Naturally, Sammy woke up right after that. "Something goin' on?" he asked thickly.

"Ain't it always," Dean said with a smile. "Looks like we're gonna see some blue grass."

III.

Sam thinks that's where it started. But Dean knows it started with a dream. "Look, Dean, I know it hurts."

"You don't know. You don't have a fucking clue."

IV.

Kentucky took awhile to get to, and Dean begrudgingly allowed Sam to drive, but only because he was tired and those dreams were getting on his fucking nerves. Sam hadn't noticed because there wasn't much to see—Dean wouldn't allow himself to wake up screaming or crying or even breathing differently, not if it would alert Sam. Dean refused to let it happen. Besides, the dreams were unnerving and strange and increasingly abstract, but they certainly weren't terrifying. Nobody was bleeding, at any rate. Nobody was bleeding or screaming or dying.

At least, until they passed the border of Tennessee and Kentucky, and then Dean was dreaming of Marshall Hall, someone he hadn't dreamt of in a long time. As usual, Marshall was faceless, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, but there was no question as to who he was, not with the gaping hole within his chest. Dean looked down at his own chest to see blood staining his white shirt. Dean knew it was Marshall Hall's blood; he had stolen it, along with Marshall's heart.

They were standing in some kind of ballroom, and everybody was dancing. Dean stood apart, silently watching, as Marshall spun the dark brunette in his arms. Her eyes were all for Dean as she twirled effortlessly. "You were supposed to be the one," she whispered. "You were supposed to be the one."

Then, suddenly, Marshall was gone, and the brunette was walking towards him, moving faster than the eye could see, the way spirits always did. She was wearing a wedding gown and a veil that dripped dark spots of blood. When he lifted it away, only her lips were unstained.

She pushed her hand in his face, and Dean saw the diamond on her finger. "You were supposed to be one," she said, "and now look what's happened to us." Dean went to grasp her hand, knowing that the two were meant to dance, but his father was suddenly there, pushing Dean back and out of danger. "Mind if I cut in," Dad said with a smile, and the two were suddenly spinning on the dance floor. Dean tried to figure out what was weirder—the fact that his dad was alive or that he was dancing.

Or that he was smiling—that was weird too. Dean watched as his father dipped the brunette. "Does this ever have to stop?" Dad asked. "I'm not ready for it to end."

The dark brunette with the bloody face smiled softly as she pulled away. "Then you should never have let it begin," she told him, and his father fell slowly to the floor.

"Dad!" Dean screamed, trying to run over, but suddenly there was so many people in the way. "Dad! Dad! Are you okay! Talk to me, Dad! Talk to me!"

But his Dad didn't talk because he was dead, and Dean felt himself sliding helplessly to his knees. The brunette sat in front of him, her cold hands in his hands. "If you had just finished your vows," she said. "It didn't have to end like this."

And when Dean woke up, silently shaking and out of breath, Sam has stopped the car to stare at him like he's grown a third head. "Dude," he said. "You all right?"

Dean didn't know how to answer that. So instead, he said, "I'm fine."

V.

"All right," Sam says, sounding more frustrated by the second. "Why don't you tell me? Tell me exactly how much I don't know."

"You don't know how to shut up and back the fuck off. I'm _fine_, Sam. Leave it alone."

VI.

So they got to Kentucky and met up with Grey and talked to a few other people, widows and orphans, mostly. Sam started to over identify with the rebellious teen who lost his dad, and Dean knew that this job wouldn't end well . . .and that was even _before_ their fake IDs were spotted.

Then, later, they were at a diner, and Dean was bitching about their shitty luck _("Just once, I'd like a cop who didn't do EVERY fucking background check.")_ when they heard a scream from across the street that took agony to whole new levels. They ran out of the restaurant and across the street along with half the freaking town, and Sam found the body near a dumpster, a man of undeterminable age. Undeterminable because most of the man's skull was on the sidewalk, and his face was ripped to shreds, like it had gotten in the way. His chest was open too, and the heart obviously missing, but it was the head that looked the worst. The scalp looked like a regurgitated, bloody pie crust.

"Ready to eat some strawberry pie?" Dean muttered as people inevitably screamed and gasped around him. Sam turned to glare at him for a long moment before he stomped away to brood somewhere.

VII.

Now Sam is broody all over again, only it's not about Dean's inappropriate sense of humor, and no matter how he tries, Dean can't shake him from the subject. Sam wants Dean to tell him how's he feeling, and Dean tries to joke his way out of it, but when he borrows a line from his man Jack, the line falls flat from his lips.

Because no matter what Sam says, Dean knows that his brother can't handle the truth.

VIII.

When Sam totally yarks while they're at the morgue, Dean can't help but rib him about it. Not that he was feeling entirely un-queasy himself. This dude was pretty vomitlicious.

The body that they had found turned out to be a man named Joel Barker. His heart and brain were missing. . .and the coroner had found some saliva _inside_ the skull.

That's where Sam started to blink hard, at both the body and the coroner. "Umm. . .saliva in the. . .what? How did it, uhhh, how did it get there?"

"My guess?" the coroner said. "This serial killer is some kind of cannibal. He doesn't seem interested in the flesh or bones, but the hearts and brains? I think he's eating them." The coroner looked down at the whopping sample of drool he had collected. "He's apparently a little messy with his snacks."

Dean saw Sam blink again, and watched his brother swallow hard with a great deal of amusement. As the coroner walked away to wash a scalpel or something, Dean leaned in closer to his brother. "Dude," he whispered, smirking too widely. "Forget what I said about strawberry pie. This is more like freaking raw hamburger . . .with a bloody, little scalp bun."

Sam swallowed once again . . .and then he was gone, as far as his freakishly long legs would take him. Dean found himself chuckling as the coroner came back, a puzzled look on his face.

"Rookie," Dean explained, and then shook his head, smiling, as he looked at Barker's head. The smile faded almost immediately when he remembered that hamburger was what he had for dinner.

Dean considered running after his brother to the bathroom, but Sam was back by then, hastily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Dean pushed the nausea back the way he pushed everything back, and turned to look at Sam with a wide grin.

"Dude," he said quietly, "you're such a freaking girl."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said, and Dean can't get himself to stop laughing.

IX.

"Would you stop fucking around for one damn second," Sam says after Dean tries to deflect more questions. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"Doing what?" Dean asks. It sounds like a smart ass question, and it is, but only partially, because Dean's only doing what he's always done. He wouldn't know how to stop even if he wanted to.

"You can't keep shutting me out, Dean! You have _got_ to talk about this. Dad was—"

"Dad's dead, Sam," Dean snaps quickly. "It's time to move on."

X.

Moving on sounded good on paper, but it was harder in application when Dean's dreams of this dark brunette would just _not_ go away. The brothers had gone back to the hotel after their discovery at the morgue, and Sam _(damn him)_ had noticed that Dean hadn't slept much in a couple of days. Dean did not want to go to sleep; he did not want these dreams again, but he also didn't want Sam asking any questions, so he promised to take a quick nap while Sam did some research. Of course, Dean had no intention of actually letting himself fall asleep, but the lack of shuteye caught up with him the second his head hit the pillow. Dean fell asleep hoping he'd have dreams of drool and raw hamburger. That would be gross, but nowhere near as disturbing.

He didn't get what he wished.

The brunette was standing in front of the church, once again in her wedding dress. There was no blood on her face or hands, but there was blood pooling around her feet. She turned away from the church to look at him up and down. Then, she told him he wasn't really dressed for the occasion.

Dean looked down at what he was wearing—scrub pants and a white T-shirt—and stepped up to where she's standing, his bare feet sticking in her dark blood. "Looks like good formal wear to me," he said. "For dying, anyway."

"So why don't you do it, already?" she asked, and suddenly the church was gone as if it never had been. Now they were standing at the hospital, and her face was turned away from him. She spun quickly, swivelling her head, and her eyes were the brightest, deepest orange.

"Today's your lucky day, kid." And the brunette reached out to grab his forehead, but Dean woke up before she touched him, physically pulling back in bed. He quickly looked over at Sam, but Sam was so intent in his research he hadn't even noticed. Dean would have thanked God for small favors but it was hard to thank God for anything these days.

Thirty minutes later, Dean had showered, and Sam had finally found a lead. "It's that kid, Aaron," Sam said while Dean threw on a new shirt. It takes Dean only a second to remember who Aaron is _(Broody kid. Dad died. Way too much like Sam)_. "I just called his mom to check up and stuff, and guess what? Aaron's just checked himself into a mental hospital."

Dean shrugged. Sam seemed to think that this was some massive breakthrough, but Dean didn't get what the big deal was. "So?" he asked. "Kid's dad just died, Sam. Not a big surprise that he's all fucked up."

It took Dean a second to realize what a potential chick flick moment this was. And he was the one who opened it. _(Godfuckingdammit.)_ Thankfully, Sam was so absorbed into his Aaron-Sammy mental bond to even notice how Dean had slipped. "Yeah," Sam said, "but check this out: Aaron was there, on the street, when Joel Barker died—"

"So was half the town, Sammy—"

"_And_," Sam said, completely ignoring Dean, "He said he saw something running away from the body."

Dean barely glanced up. "Oh yeah? And what was that?"

"His dad," Sam said, and Dean glanced up.

TBC

Reviews are your friend. Mine too, really.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Once again, I own nothing of Supernatural. I will weep over this at another time.

I.

"You can't just make yourself move on, Dean. You can't just snap your fingers and make everything okay."

_Why not?_ Dean doesn't ask. _I've been doing it for years._

II.

Getting in to see the kid wasn't as easy as it sounded. The doctors there were extremely protective—that meant no friends, no cops, no nothing. So instead, Sam snuck in while Dean created a diversion . . .a perfect job for both brothers. Sam did his talking-bonding deal while Dean got to play practical jokes; he wished things worked out like that more often, but maybe that would be too easy. Now, Dean was languishing in the car, waiting for Sam to finish up, and singing Metallica's "Enter Sandman" under his breath.

Dean casually glanced in the rear view mirror, and jolted hard in his seat. For a second, his Dad's image had been reflected in the mirror. Dean quickly turned around but there was absolutely nothing there, and somehow Dean had already known that—the only ghost in this car was in the one in his head. He tried to steady his breathing and settle back down again, when he thought of the brunette. The one with the blood on her face. The one with the cold hands. Suddenly, he knew exactly who she was, or rather, what she was.

_That's a convenient epiphany_, Sam had once said. Dean couldn't remember what they had been talking about now, but he remembered his reaction. Out loud, he had made fun of same for using "fancy college words" like epiphany. In his head, Dean had simply thought, _An epiphany is nothing special. You're just suddenly realizing something you should have figured out ages ago._

"She's a reaper," Dean muttered quietly to himself. "The same damn one who was coming for me."

But she didn't get him, for some reason. She should have caught him, but she didn't. He fought her back or she gave up or----or----

_(Today's your lucky day, kid)_

—or something.

And Dean knew it was coming together, the pieces, the fragments of his crazy dreams. Something was coming together, and when it did . . .Dean wasn't sure what would happen. But he had the feeling it was bad. He _knew_ it was bad.

Then Sam was opening the door, and talking before he'd even sat down. "Aaron said he saw his dad with blood all over him. On his mouth, on his hands, like he'd been _eating_ something. Aaron thinks his dad came back as a zombie or something. I mean, that is possible, right? Zombies? I know we never ran into any, but—"

"Oh, zombies are real," Dean interrupted. "Dad and I ran into some while you were at Stanford." It was hard to say 'Dad' so casually but Dean kept his face impassive, like always.

"Well, is that what we're dealing with? I mean, walking dead, eating flesh . . ."

"Yeah, but zombies aren't exactly discriminate about what body parts they gnaw on. I mean, sure, they'll eat hearts and brains like any good zombie . . . and they'll eat livers and intestines and all the little piggies—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it," Sam said. "Besides, zombies aren't supposed to be smart, are they? And this thing has been covering his tracks."

"Exactly," Dean said. "I don't think that's what we're dealing with. There's something about this whole brain and heart deal. It's very ritualistic. . .I'm just not sure exactly what it means." He thought about it for a minute, tapping the steering wheel absently with one hand. "Typically, the brain and heart are considered the residences of the life force. You know, the brain holds all the intellect and reasoning; the heart holds all the mushy, touchy feely crap."

Sam smirked for a second but then his eyes went wide. "Dude," he said. "Dad's journal. You got it?" Dean pulled it out of his jacket pocket. Lately, he'd taken to absently flipping through the pages any time he was sure that Sam wasn't looking. Sam quickly glanced through it and stopped somewhere near the middle of the book. "It's a shifter," he said. "Some kind Dad never faced, just gathered information about."

Dean took the journal from Sam and glanced at the page. There wasn't a lot of information, but what was there was, was interesting. . .Yoda-notes about skinwalkers that needed to feast on a life force to survive. They could gain dreams, memories, and fears from just tasting of a person's blood, but it was the brains and hearts they were after—the more the ate, the stronger they were.

And unlike other skinwalkers, these ones had no interest in keeping people alive because they could only shift themselves into people that were already dead. Typically, they took on the shape and form of someone they had devoured, but they could transform into anyone as long as that person was no longer among the land of the living.

"They hibernate," Dean read out loud, mostly to himself. "Sometimes for as long as forty or fifty years."

"But the sheer amount of people who die in between those forty our fifty years?" Sam shook his head. "It's just like the shtriga, man. This thing is just getting started."

"So we kill it," Dean said simply. "We just need to figure out where the hell it is."

Sam shrugged. "Well," he said, "all the victims were found outside, right? In fact, I think everyone of them were found pretty near manholes. You know what that means."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Last shifter liked the sewers too. It's always the fucking sewers. Just once, I'd like to hunt down some bitch who made his little den of death in Maui or something."

"You'd have to fly to get there, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "Nah," he said. "I'd just tie you up and use you as a raft."

"Yeah." Sam rolled his eyes. "_That'd_ be effective."

Dean ignored him. "Blue skies, hot weather, hot girls. . .we could have a lot of fun in Hawaii. Well, _I_ could have a lot of fun in Hawaii. You could probably find some geek volcano research thing to do."

Sam glared at him. "Can we please go find this thing now?"

". . .maybe some girl would even be attracted to your total nerd status. . .if they could see past all that freaking girly hair of yours. . ."

"Dean."

"Seriously, dude, you might as well make ringlets out of it and start calling yourself Samantha."

"_Dean_. People dying, being eaten, rising body count. . .any of this ringing a bell?"

Dean laughed. "Relax, dude," he said, starting the car. "We'll find it, we'll hunt it, we'll kill it. It's not like it's anything special. Certainly not half as scary as that hair. . ."

"Dean."

"Don't worry, Sammy. I promise, we'll be back in time for you to watch Gilmore Girls."

Sam swore.

III.

"Dammit, Dean. _Talk_ to me."

"Nothing to say, Sammy."

"That's bullshit and you know it. Look, what happened in Kentucky—"

"Nothing happened in Kentucky, Sam. It was just a regular hunt and just another monster. End of fucking story."

IV.

It wasn't just another monster. Not anywhere even close.

Sam had found the trail easily once they were in the sewers. The shifter seemed to be much less careful with blood drops and body parts down where no one ventured. Even if pieces of body hadn't shown up to lead a twisted path, the brothers would have found the lair anyway. The smell only went downhill from the regular sewer stench of shit.

Dean leaned down near one jagged pipe and called out to Sam. "Think I found some of his shed skin here," Dean said. "That is just freaking gross."

Sam snorted from somewhere farther away. "Yeah, that's the _only_ thing gross about this situation," Sam said drily. "I'm not seeing any signs of it. You think it's already out hunting for it's next victim?"

Dean was about to answer when he felt claws slicing into his lower back. "Fuck!" he cried out and span around as quickly as he could, shooting blindly behind him. A quick, dark outline scampered out of sight, and Dean scrambled backwards as Sam called out to him frantically. "Yeah, I'm thinking the shifter's down here," Dean said as Sam ran up to him.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean said. Sam gave him quick, don't-bullshit-me look, but it actually wasn't a lie. Dean could feel the blood dripping down his back, and he knew those cuts would hurt like hell tomorrow, but they didn't feel that deep. Anyway, he wasn't going to waste time checking it out. "I don't know where it went," Dean said quietly, searching the surrounding darkness.

"I'm right here," the thing said, and Dean and Sam turned. The shifter was moving too quickly in the darkness to get a good shot, and they only had so many silver bullets. "Mmmm. . .this blood. . .tastes strong, tastes goooooood. I bet other parts would be just as tasty."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, I ain't a TV dinner. This food comes with a little bit of a fight."

"All the better," the thing said. "Food always tastes better when it's fighting. When it's struggling and when it's screaming."

"Sorry, buddy, but that's not going to happen."

"Oh, I know how to make you scream, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's terrifying," he said. "You tasted my blood; now you know my name. Got another cute tricks up your sleeve?"

"Actually. . .I do."

And John Winchester emerged from the darkness.

TBC

I'm not sure I believe in karma, but on the off chance it does exist, if you review for me, I'm more likely to review for you. Pleeeeease? I'm totally not above begging. As you can clearly see.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Just another reminder, this story is AU as of "Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things." Hope people are enjoying.

I.

"Just another hunt? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you actually expect me to buy that shit? This was not just another hunt, Dean—"

"Yes, it _was_," Dean snaps. "It was a shifter trying to fuck with our heads. It wasn't Dad. _Okay_? Do you fucking get that?"

"Yeah, I get it, Dean," Sam says quietly. "Do you?"

II.

Dean had a perfect shot. The shifter had left it right open. Like it knew that Dean would hesitate. Dean never hesitated.

Dean aimed the gun at the skinwalker. And hesitated.

John Winchester's face disappeared in the darkness. A second later, Sam was being pulled backwards. "Dean!" Sam yelled.

"Sam!" Dean ran after him. "Sammy!" There was no answer. Dean ran carefully in the darkness, gun quickly pointing around sharp corners. "If you hurt my brother, you fucking bitch, I will kill you! Do you hear me? I will kill you so slow you'll be begging for a silver bullet!"

"Now, Dean," John's voice said. "Is that anyway to talk to your father?"

Dean turned quickly to his left and the shifter emerged from the shadows. He was holding Sam as a shield in front of him, a long blade close to Sammy's throat. Sam looked scared but otherwise unhurt. "You okay?" Dean asked him.

"Yeah," Sammy rasped.

"What, no words of welcome to your old man? Aren't you happy to see me, Dean?" The skinwalker laughed as he backed up further. "I sure have missed you boys."

Dean gripped the gun tighter in response, hoping that the action would speak for him. Hoping that the shifter would read between the lines: _I'm not rising to the bait. I know what you are_. Dean needed for the shifter to believe that the silence wasn't a weakness. Dean needed the shifter to believe that he was perfectly able to speak.

Because the truth was that Dean couldn't get his mouth to open because this was Dad, alive again, and Dean didn't have the heart for witty punch lines. Even when Dad had been possessed by the Demon, as horrible as that had been, their eyes had been different. It was easier to separate the two. But now, Dad was here _(no, it's not Dad, it's just a shifter)_ and Dean knew he was missing his cue to angrily explain that their dad was dead.

So Sam did it for him, Sam, the brother with a knife to his throat. "You're not him," Sam whispered harshly. "Our dad's gone. You're not him."

"Maybe not," the skinwalker said. "But I'm the best you're going to get." Dean watched Sam grimace in pain and saw the claws digging into his side. And it was Sammy's blood, Sammy's pain, that finally brought Dean's voice back to him.

"Don't," Dean said. "I will kill you if you hurt my brother."

"Oh, Dean," the skinwalker said. "Haven't you killed me enough already?"

Sam's brow furrowed at that, and he threw a quick glance at Dean, but Dean kept his attention on the shifter. "You let him go," Dean said, "and I'll do the same for you." Sam's glance of confusion turned to incredulity as he stared holes into Dean's forehead, but the shifter just laughed John Winchester's laugh, a gruff, too loud sound in the enveloping darkness.

"Dean, you always were such a bad liar. I'm beginning to think that Indian guy was right about you. You've lied to so many people so many times. You lied to me right before I died. You promised that you would take care of Sammy." The shifter dugs his claws further into Sam's side. "Does this look like taking care of him to you?"

_Doesn't mean I lied. Just means I failed._ But that wasn't much of a comeback, so Dean didn't say it. The shifter's attention was fixed almost entirely on Dean, and the knife pressed to Sam's throat was dropping just a little. Sam had one hand near his jean pocket, and the shifter hadn't noticed. Dean thought he knew what was hidden there; he just had to keep Dad's attention a little longer.

"So why bother with him anyway?" Dean asked his father _(shifter, skinwalker, it's not Dad. . .only that was getting harder to remember with every passing second that Dean held the gun)_. "Why don't you just let him go and get your food over here? I can promise you, I'm a helluva lot more tasty."

"Oh, I think you know that Sammy's got . . .talents. . .that you couldn't possibly hope to share." Sam's hand was sliding out of his pocket, and Dean could see a small glint of metal in his hand. "Isn't that right, Sammy boy?"

"Don't call me Sammy," Sam said, and stabbed the knife blindly backwards.

Dean didn't see where the knife made contact, but suddenly Dad was screaming and his blade dropped. Sam tried to drop out of the way, but Dad's hands were on his arms. A second later, Sam was in the air and hurtling straight into Dean. Dean felt Sam slam into him, hard, and then he was flying backwards as well. His head cracked the wall behind him and the gun dropped out of his hands as he collapsed on the ground.

There was a second where things went murky and grey, like his mind was desperately trying to pass out, but Dean blinked the darkness away and pushed himself up from the floor. Sam was a few feet away from him, on the ground, and his Dad was nearby. His hands were at Sam's chest, ready to claw their way into Sam's heart.

Dean scrambled forward and leapt for the gun. He aimed it directly at his father's heart. "Hey!" he yelled and Dad looked up. There was a smile on his face.

"Dean!" Dad said, grinning at him. "Are you really going to shoot your own father? Can you really live with that guilt?" And Dean could tell that Dad thought he couldn't.

But he didn't know the son he had raised. He thought he'd raised a soldier, not a killer.

And boy, was he wrong about that.

Dean shot his father straight in the heart.

III.

"Look, I know you're worried about me. I get that, okay? And I'm not saying that Kentucky was a big bowel of fuzzy peaches because it wasn't. There was a shifter. It looked like Dad. I killed it. It sucked. But it's over, okay, and I'm sick of fucking talking about it."

"But you haven't _said_ anything, Dean. All you do is go on about how you're fine, and I know you're not fine. Why won't you just admit it?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Sam. You're like a freaking broken record. What do you want me to do, cry?"

"Yes! Cry, scream, flip out! Do anything but sit there and tell me that you're fine!"

_I AM fine. I am._

Dean knew it was a lie.

He didn't remember helping Sammy to his feet or putting his gun away. He didn't remember doing either of those things, but he must have because he's suddenly there. One arm around his brother, the gun in the back of his jeans. They stood there leaning into one another, staring at Dad. Dead again.

_Hey, dejavu. Didn't we do this once before?_

Then they were standing at the car, Dean on the driver's side, Sam on the other, and Dean had no memory of how they had gotten there, like the walk was a dream he couldn't quite remember. He heard Sam say his name a little too loudly, as if he had said it a few times already. Dean looked up at him and frowned. Sam had his concerned face on.

Sam said, "Dean? Are you okay?"

Dean didn't remember what he said. But it must have been something convincing because then they were driving away, one quick stop at the motel, and then getting the flying fuck out of Kentucky. Sam shot him furtive glances, reminding him about the human's body need to sleep, but Dean ignored him like he always did, and the hours rolled into days. Sam wanted to find a real bed but Dean couldn't let himself stop moving. He couldn't let himself sleep until he was sure he'd too be tired to even dream.

It was a good plan, might have worked even, if somewhere along the way, Dean's mind hadn't betrayed him and nodded off for a quick second. But it did, and Dean went suddenly from driving down the highway to barely veering the car out of the path of the very large, impending semi. Then Sam was swearing at the top of his lungs and Dean was pulling over on the side of the road and Sam was physically dragging him from the driver's seat saying he wouldn't let Dean get them killed. And Dean knew that Sam was right, that he had serious cause to be concerned, because Dean got people killed . . . somewhere, somehow he knew that. But he didn't want to think about it and he was too tired to fight, so instead he crumpled up in the passenger seat and prayed he wouldn't dream. But that, like most of his prayers, didn't work out the way he wanted, and when the brunette showed up in her wedding dress, Dean was not particularly surprised.

They were inside the church this time, and the brunette was reaching for his hand, but Dad showed up out of nowhere and shoved him out of the way. Dad shoved him and said slowly, "You know, I never wanted this. I never wanted to get married again, but I'll sacrifice everything for you."

And then Dad walked down the aisle, hand in hand with his reaper bride, and when Dad said, "I do", there was a gunshot in the church. Dean didn't remember pulling the trigger but the gun is cold and heavy in his hands, and there's a bullet hole in his Dad's chest, blood running all down his tux.

"Oh, Dean," Dad said, laughing. "Haven't you killed me enough already?"

And when Dean woke up in the car, he couldn't ignore the pieces any longer. Anyone smarter, or maybe just less stubborn, would have figured it out by now. But Dean _was_ stubborn, and not that bright, and he _wouldn't_ let himself understand. He didn't want this knowledge. He didn't want any of this.

But he couldn't ignore it any longer. Dad was dead. Because of him. Dad had sacrificed himself. Dad was dead.

Dean had killed him.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Chap 4 up. One more to go

I.

Sam thinks it's about Kentucky. Sam thinks that's where things went wrong.

Dean knows better. But he won't be enlightening Sam anytime soon.

_You're the reason Dad's dead. You're the reason everything's gone wrong._

_Nope_, Dean thinks. _There are some things Sammy should never know._

II.

Dean thought he was doing okay. Dean thought he had it under control.

He didn't _feel_ like he was in control. He felt like he was free falling. Like someone had tossed him out of a plane and he was tailspinning round and round. Dean felt like the world was sliding in and out of a glaring focus. The crash was inevitable; he was only killing time until it happened.

The trick wasn't to stop the crash, or give him something soft to land on. The trick was to keep quiet, keep silent, so no one noticed.

Like Sam. Ever since Kentucky, Sam had been obnoxiously observant, hovering like a freaking mother hen to make sure Dean was okay. _If you wanna talk_, Sam had said. _If you, y'know, need anything._

_Yeah, Sammy_, Dean had thought. _I need to go back in fucking time. I need Dad to be alive. I need it to not all be a waste. All I fought for, all I killed for. All the horrible things I've done. I need it to not all be for nothing. I need for it to mean SOMETHING._

But Dean couldn't say this. So instead he laughed Sam off. And he thought he was doing okay. He thought Sam didn't know.

Then they were down on a hunt in Louisiana, and their poltergeist had got nasty damn quick, and Dean had been thrown across the room, into a wall. . .for the third time. This time his head cracked against a brick that was sticking out further than the others, and the world had lost color and everything slid sideways

_(and he's down for the count, folks, the Winchester boy has gone DOWN, but the poltergeist ain't done yet, no, the poltergeist is coming to finish the job. . .)_

and then Sam was there, standing in between Dean and the bad guy, only there was no weapon in his hand because there hadn't been time to get it. He was just standing there, almost passively, allowing the poltergeist to attack, giving Dean time to recover. Taking the punishment meant for Dean.

And Dean couldn't allow that, damn the world and it's refusal to stop spinning. Dean couldn't allow Sam to get hurt, not ever. So he lurched to his feet and managed to find the shotgun and blast the hell out of Casper even as Sam fell to his knees. And when Dean ran over to check on how Sam was doing, he ended up pummeling him to the ground instead.

"You _idiot_!" Dean yelled at him. "What the hell were you thinking? Don't you ever, don't you _ever,_ do that to me again!"

He wasn't exactly sure what he expected from Sam, maybe a fight, maybe an apology, but Sam's exhausted, weak laughter sure as hell wasn't it. Sam deflected Dean's fists from bashing into the side of his head but put up no real fight, as if Dean's rage was somehow amusing. As if Sam being hurt was somehow _funny_.

A few minutes later, Sam's laughter died out due to the fact that Dean was still shaking him around like a rag doll. "Dude," he said, "I'm fine, or I will be. Once you stop trying to break me, that is."

The words were enough to get Dean to step back _(you're hurting Sammy; you never ever hurt Sammy)_ but not enough to dam up whatever flood work had been set loose; Dean couldn't cover right now, couldn't say he was fine. Sammy could have been hurt. Sammy could have been killed.

Dean couldn't stop shaking as he glared at his brother.

"Not ever again," Dean managed to repeat. "You hear me? Not ever."

Sam's face changed then, some kind of unwelcome mixture of tenderness and pity written across his features. "Dean," he said softly, "what was I supposed to do? Let her finish you off? You're my brother, man."

Dean had backed off by then, trying to put space between them, and Sam moved forward, trying to shorten the gap. "We help each other," Sam said firmly. "We watch out for each other. We're supposed to be a team. I rescue your ass; you rescue mine. What part of that concept don't you get?"

Dean's voice sounded strangled in his own ears, like something was choking him from the inside out. "The part where you get hurt because of me. You can't get hurt because of me." Dean could see confusion spread across Sam's face, tying his forehead into one big burrowed knot.

"Dean," Sam said, but Dean interrupted him. "No," Dean said. "We're not discussing this." He turned away, intending to head back to the Impala, but there was a hand on his arm, spinning him around.

"Dean!" Sam said. "What the hell is going on with you? Are you actually pissed that I saved your life?" When Dean only tried to move away again, Sam grabbed his arm tighter. "Look!" Sam yelled. "I really don't care what kind of stupid super-brother mantra you've got constantly playing in your head. I will not, I _can_ not leave you to die—"

"And I can't fucking get you killed!" Dean jerked his arm back, free from his brother's grasp, and glared at him again with eyes that were just a touch too bright. "Jesus Christ, Sam! I can't kill you too!"

And then there was silence. And God, was it long.

III.

"Look, Dean, I know it hurts."

"You don't know. You don't have a fucking clue."

Sammy's driving now, and Dean wishes he was driving instead because he never feels this trapped, this powerless behind the wheel. When Dean's in the driver's seat, he has all the say-so. He has all the answers, or at least can BS some pretty good ones. When Dean's the one driving, he gets to decide which road they'll take, but now he's sitting shotgun and has to follow Sam's lead.

And _damn _if Sam won't just stop making all the wrong turns. Sam is hell bent on going places Dean does _not_ want to go.

"All right," Sam says tightly, sounding more frustrated by the second. Dean would feel more sorry for the kid if he wasn't the one being interrogated. "Why don't you tell me? Tell me exactly how much I don't know."

Dean almost wants to, and that impulse scares him a little. He _wants_ to tell Sam what's wrong and what's happened and how he's feeling. He wants to stop telling lies; he wants to stop keeping secrets. He wants to be naive enough to believe that they could share everything.

But he isn't that naive, and he knows that telling Sam is a bad idea. Bad enough to be catastrophic, bad enough to be fucking apocalyptic. If Dean told Sam . . .if Sam found out. . ._No_, Dean thinks again. _There are some things Sam should never know._

So instead, Dean pretty much tells Sam to shut up and back the fuck off. "I'm _fine_, Sam," Dean says. "Leave it alone."

And Sam stays quiet long enough to where Dean thinks he actually might. But then he starts up again, like a fucking broken record. _You gotta talk to me; you gotta tell me what's going through your head_. "Tell me the truth."

"You can't handle the truth."

And if only _that_ truth about the truth wasn't true. Dean smirks at how freaking retarded that sounded.

Sam, of course, catches the smirk out of the corner of his eye, and immediately precedes to get even bitchier than he already was. "Would you stop fucking around for one damn second?" And Deans wants to roll his eyes because, for once, he's really not fucking around. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

_Jesus, Sammy, you're like the Melodrama King_. "Doing what?" Dean asks, hoping to sound as obnoxious as he possibly can. Because if Sam's determined to piss him off, Dean wants to get some licks in too. Besides, what's he doing that's so different from what he always does?

"You can't keep shutting me out, Dean! You have _got_ to talk about this. Dad was—"

But Dean doesn't want to hear it. "Dad's dead, Sam," Dean snaps. "It's time to move on." _So shut up already. Please? Just shut UP._

Sam makes a sound that's somewhere between a sigh and a scream. "You can't just make yourself move on, Dean," Sam says, sounding exasperated. "You can't just snap your fingers and make everything okay."

_Why not?_ Dean doesn't ask. _I've been doing it for years._ But Sam wouldn't appreciate the thought, so Dean doesn't say anything at all. Sam allows the silence to grow for a whole five seconds before he breaks it again to continue his relentless interrogation.

"Dammit, Dean. _Talk_ to me."

_I can't, dammit. _"Nothing to say, Sammy."

"That's bullshit and you know it. Look, what happened in Kentucky—"

"Nothing happened in Kentucky, Sam. It was just a regular hunt and just another monster. End of fucking story."God, he wishes, but they both know different, so Dean can't really be angry by the outraged exasperation in Sam's voice.

"Just another hunt? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you actually expect me to buy that shit?" _No, not really, but what else am I supposed to say?_ "This was not just another hunt, Dean—"

"Yes, it _was_. It was a shifter trying to fuck with our heads. It wasn't Dad. _Okay_? Do you fucking get that?"

"Yeah, I get it, Dean. Do you?"

Dean sighs. He's obviously not going about this the right way because Sam still hasn't backed off and it's starting to seriously wear on Dean's nerves. "Look, I know you're worried about me. I get that, okay? And I'm not saying that Kentucky was a big bowel of fuzzy peaches because it wasn't." _Good God, it fucking wasn't. But that's not even the issue. If it was. . if that's all it was. . .but it's not. And you can't know._

"There was a shifter. It looked like Dad. I killed it. It sucked. But it's over, okay, and I'm sick of fucking talking about it."

"But you haven't _said_ anything, Dean. All you do is go on about how you're fine, and I know you're not fine. Why won't you just admit it?"

Dean rolls his eyes. Really, what else can he do? "Jesus, Sam. You're like a freaking broken record. What do you want me to do, cry?"

"Yes!" Sam yells, and it disturbs Dean how _ecstatic_ Sam sounds by the notion. "Cry, scream, flip out! Do anything but sit there and tell me that you're fine!"

"I _am_ fine," Dean tries to say, and----

"You're not _fucking FINE_! You haven't been _fine_ since Dad died! You keep saying that you are; you keep saying that you're dealing—"

"I _am _dealing—"

"Don't lie to me!" Sam's glaring at Dean hard enough that Dean actually wants to wince. He doesn't, of course, but he wants to, and that says something about being on the opposite end of a Winchester's anger. "You are _not_ dealing with Dad's death, and I'm sick of hearing you _lie_ about it! Just for one in your life, I want you to be fucking honest with me!"

"What the hell for?" And Dean knows this is dangerous territory now because before Dean was just irritated, and now he's fucking pissed. _You don't want to know! Don't you get that? You don't want to know and all I want to do is tell you!_ "What is all this sharing and caring really going to accomplish, Sammy? You want me to cry on your shoulder? You think that'll somehow make everything _better_? It's never going to be better, Sammy. We're never going to be _normal_."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Dean! I'm not worried about being normal! This isn't about me!"

"Then what the hell is it about?"

"It's about you, you asshole! It's about you falling apart! It's about you trying to pick up the pieces as if I wouldn't notice! I need you, godammit. I need you to be okay, and you're not okay, Dean. This is going to kill you if you let it—"

"I don't _care_, Sammy!" Dean screams suddenly. "I don't care if it does!"

And Dean knows, too late, that it's the wrong thing to say.

TBC

Pleeeeeeeeease review. It really helps out so much.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Notes: I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone that's reviewed; you have no idea how much that's meant to me. This is the last chapter, so hope everyone likes.

I.

Sam stares at him for half a heartbeat, paying no attention to the road, and then abruptly turns the steering wheel as hard as he can to the right. The Impala spins out of control, one, two, three crazy swoops, and then comes to a sudden, very harsh, abrupt stop. Dean opens his mouth, maybe to accuse Sam of being crazy, maybe to ask what the hell he was thinking and look what could have happened to his car, but he can't say anything. His mouth suddenly feels very dry. Sam's hands are clenched on the steering wheel and Dean worries that he might snap it in half.

Then Sam looks up. And Dean's not so worried about the car anymore.

"You don't what?" Sam asks, and his voice is all wrong. It doesn't sound like Sammy's; it sounds rough, it sounds dangerous. _It sounds like a Winchester's_, Dean realizes belatedly. And Dean knows that this can not end well.

"You don't _what_?" Sam asks again, and when Dean doesn't answer, Sam takes him by the shoulders and shakes him around. "You _don't WHAT_?"

"Sammy, just—"

"You bastard," Sam says, and suddenly Dean's head has cracked the car window as Sam's put a fist to his face. "I _waited_," Sam says, his voice starting to break. "I sat there and I waited, for days and days. I waited for you to wake up. There wasn't anything else I could do. All my work, all my research—there was nothing, _nothing_. Do you know how hard that was, just having to sit there and wait, to be completely powerless as I watched you die? I searched so hard for some spell, some miracle, some _anyfuckingthing_ to make you wake up. But you wouldn't, you would,n't and there was nothing I could do. I just had to sit there and pray and wait and _wait_."

"Sam—" Dean tries. But Sam doesn't let him speak.

"I waited," Sam says. "I _need_ you, Dean. I need you to be alive and awake and okay. And you did wake up, only you weren't okay, and I thought I could wait—I could wait for that too. But now it's not just a matter of you being okay. I'm worried about you being alive—and you don't care?" Sam's voice has completely lost that dangerous edge; he sounds broken and betrayed, which is infinitely worse. "I need you, Dean, and you don't even care—you don't care if you're alive. You don't _want_ to be alive?

"Christ, Sam," Dean whispers. "I'm not supposed to be alive." And alarm bells are going off, going _warning WARNING_. _You're about to talk about things which ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE SAID_. But Dean just can't stop himself, not right now, not anymore, and the words are falling out uncensored from his mouth. "Dad, in the hospital, he—he made some kind of deal—and now, now he's dead, and I can't, I just can't _think_—"

And man are things fucked up now, like seriously fucked up beyond repair, because in the middle of trying to explain, Dean realizes he's crying. Only it's so much worse than that because it's more than just crying; Dean's sobbing, really, sobbing so hard he can't breathe. Instead, he manages harsh gasps of brief, bitter air in between broken words that are almost unintelligible with grief.

"I'm not supposed to be alive—Dad, he—he's supposed to be alive—and he's dead and I'm here, and I can't, I _can't_—"

But Dean doesn't get to finish because Sam is suddenly holding him in his arms, and Dean is being rocked back and forth like he's the younger brother. _This is all wrong_, Dean thinks, because he's not supposed to be sobbing like a little girl. He's Dean, he's the strong one, and he's supposed to be unbreakable. _This is all wrong _because it's _his_ job to take care of Sammy, whether it's from the monsters or the nightmares; it's Dean's job to be the big brother. _This is all wrong _because no matter what's happening, Sam is never supposed to be responsible; he's never supposed to take care of Dean.

_This is all wrong _because Dad's never supposed to die, not out of sacrifice, not for him. They're supposed to be a family. _This is all wrong_ because Dean's worked so hard to make things right; they're supposed to have their happy ever after. They're supposed to find a home again.

_This is all wrong. This is all wrong._

"It's okay, Dean. It's okay."

But it's not. It's just not.

It'd never be okay.

II.

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep but he must have nodded off sometime, because a minute ago he was in the Impala and now he's lying on his back on a motel bed. He blinks at the air above him and watches it focus into an ugly tangerine ceiling. _Looks like Sam picked a winner_, he thinks and then remembers to look for Sam.

Sam's sitting on the opposite bed, his huge legs stuffed beneath him. He makes absolutely no pretense at doing anything other than watching his brother. The two stare at each other for a long time, neither speaking in the lackluster lighting. Dean doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what he could say.

Dean can't read the expression on Sam's face, but he figures it some broody combination of pity and anger. He almost wishes the accusations would start; in a way, that'd make things so much easier. If Sam could just come out and say it: _You're the reason Dad died. You're the reason I don't have a father. You aren't worth it; you're not fitting. I wish like hell you'd have died instead._ But he knows that will never happen, knows that Sam will never admit it. Sam's just not that kind of man. He doesn't have that cruelty in him.

Instead, Sam will try to hide it; he'll try to keep the anger inside, and with each day that passes by, it'll just get worse and worse and worse. Sam will blame Dean and Dean will blame Dean because the truth is that Dean's to blame, and if he wasn't such a coward, he would have told Sam like a man. He would have said, _Sam, I killed Dad. You can hate me all you want_. _You should hate me all you want. Maybe you could kill me—it might help. _But Dean couldn't say that because Dean wasn't brave—he could face demons, he could face ghosts, but he didn't want to face that look.

That look that said, _How could you do this to me? How could you kill Dad? I want it back the way it was. I hate you for what you've done._ He couldn't deal with Sam's hate, silent and repressed as it would undoubtedly be. He couldn't deal with Sam's hate—he was never supposed to know.

But now he did know and Dean almost wishes they could just duke it out right now. But that's not Sammy. Sammy says, "Dean, it wasn't your fault."

Dean laughs, and it tastes of bitterness, old and stale within his mouth. "Yeah," he says, "it is. Dad died to save my worthless ass. What part of that don't you get?"

"The part where you're worthless. You are _not_ worthless, Dean."

And Dean doesn't have much to say to that. So instead he rolls away. Now he's back to looking at the ceiling and by God, is it fucking ugly. He opens his mouth to bitch about it, and what comes out has nothing to do with color. "He should be here," Dean says quietly. "He's supposed to be here."

Dean hears a sigh and a creaking of box springs which means that Sam's stood up and coming towards him. Sure enough, he feels Sam sit down quietly at the edge of the bed near his feet. Dean can feel Sam's eyes on his face but he refuses to look at his brother. He's already had one complete and utter breakdown—that should last him for the next 27 years.

"Dean," Sam says softly. "If Dad did this—"

"He did."

"Then he wouldn't want you to give up. He didn't die so you could die too. Dean, he'd want you to keep living."

"I am living. See, Dean breathing right here."

"No, man, you're surviving, and you're barely surviving at that. You've got to give up some of this guilt. You can't go on like this." Dean doesn't respond and there's a silence punctuated by another one of his brother's customary sighs. "Look, I know how you feel—"

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Mom," Sam says. "And Jess. They died because of me. If I hadn't been born, if I hadn't met Jess—they'd be alive, if not for me. You don't think I know that? You don't think I live with that everyday?"

Dean wants to tell him it's not the same but what would be the point? Sam would just argue and Dean would argue back and it'd become a battle of who was the more guilty. Dean doesn't need that, so instead he says nothing, and after a moment, Sam continues. "But I didn't kill them," Sam says. "I feel guilty as hell. . .but I didn't kill them. It's—it's hard to look at it this way sometimes, but the Demon took them from me. The Demon took both of our parents away. And we are not to blame for that."

Dean shifts uncomfortably on the mattress and hears Sam do the same. "You're my brother, Dean," Sam says, "and I'm not sorry that you're here. I miss Dad. I love Dad. But I'm not sorry that you came back."

Dean knows he should keep his eyes on the ceiling where it's ugly and tangerine and safe, but he finds himself looking at his younger brother, needing to judge the sincerity in his eyes. Because his voice sounded sincere; Sam sounded like he didn't blame Dean at all, but Dean can't believe that, so he looks. He looks. And Sam is staring right back at him, so open and trusting and scared, just like the little boy Dean tried to raise right. Dean wants to say something, maybe something like_ Thank you for looking at me in the eyes_ but he can't say anything, and he retreats his gaze back to the ceiling. Still it had been a moment and enough to know that Sam didn't blame him. Sam didn't hate him.

Dean couldn't understand _why_. But he wouldn't question it. Not now.

Dean quickly glances back at Sam and smirks. His younger brother is lying awkwardly across the foot of the bed, his ridiculously long legs draping halfway across the room. "You know," he says, "for a college boy, you're not very bright."

"What?"

Dean motions to empty space next to him. "Try lying this way, you moron," he says. "That way, your freakish giant body might actually fit on the bed."

Sam laughs at that, not that high, cackle pitch he sometimes does, but a lower, deeper laugh, and it makes Dean smile, at least a little. Sam shifts himself until he's lying on his back next to Dean. Dean goes back to looking at the ceiling and the two are quiet for a long time. Inevitably, it is Sam who breaks the silence.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

The laughter has all but vanished out of Sam's voice; instead, he sounds hesitant, as if walking on already cracking ice. "I need to know you aren't going to do anything stupid."

And Dean knows what Sam means by that, can practically see the images running through his brother's head. _Dean with dripping, bloody wrists. Dean pointing a gun at his head._ "Dude," Dean says lightly, "when do I _not_ do something stupid?"

Sam won't laugh this time, though. He opens his mouth, and Dean thinks he'll say something like, _Come on, man_, _I'm serious_ but Sam doesn't say anything like that. Instead, Sam takes a long, shaky breath and says, "I can't do this alone," and Dean's forced to look at his brother again. Sam looks helpless and scared and so very _young_, and Dean can see the little boy who would eat the last of the cereal but save the toy surprise.

All for his big brother. All for Dean.

"I can't do this alone," Sam repeats, and Dean quirks a small, one-sided smile. "Yes, you can," Dean says, expecting the obvious _Yeah, well, I don't want to_.

But Sam misses his cue. Sam looks back at Dean, stares him in the eyes, and says, "No. I can't. I can't do this on my own." And Dean hears everything that's behind those words.

_Don't leave me._

_Don't do it._

_(Dean with bloody wrists)_

_I need you. I need YOU._

_(Dean with a gun to his head)_

_Don't do anything stupid, Dean._

_(Dean dead. Dean dead. Dean dead.)_

_I need you to be okay._

_(Dean dead. Dean dead. Dean dead.)_

Dean takes his brother's hand. Sam seems startled by the touch but grasps on to it quickly as if it could disappear any second. _I can't promise you I'll be okay, Sammy. I don't know if I'll be okay._

But there are other things he can promise. There are other things he can do.

_I can't do this on my own._

"I won't leave you, Sammy."

Not ever. Not ever.

"I'll never leave you alone."

-Fin

Okay. . .so. . .that's it. Pleeeeease review and tell me what you think. You're very welcome to tell me that it was an incredible, amazing, SPECTACULAR story. . .but I also like the truth, so if there were things you didn't like, I'd love to hear those too. Ciao.


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